The Summer of Chasing Mermaids (3 page)

In the crush of laughter that marked the end of her tale, I took the back stairs down the way we'd come up, and slipped away to the sea.

Through the blackness I retraced my path to the marina, keeping a respectful distance from the waves. Nighttime was the most
dangerous, the time when she lay in wait, thick and hazy, lulling us with her otherworldly beauty.

Along the dunes I passed the larger homes first, grand palaces with names like The Captain's Shack and Heaven by the Sea, then the smaller cottages closer to town. Here, signs staked the lawns, urging the Cove's residents to vote on Prop 27, the mayor's measure that would allow commercial development of the beachfront. With his support the real estate firm Parrish and Dey was backing it, buying up and revitalizing property to boost the local economy. The town was divided, Lemon had told me—yes for those who'd make money from the influx of tourists. No for people like Lemon, people who wanted the Cove to retain its quaint seaside charms, its wildness.

It's not that the Cove didn't get visitors—the wave action was amazing for surfers. Whale watchers and beachcombers liked it too. But it was a mystical place—a tiny cove situated between swaths of ancient forest and the sea, a place found neither on maps nor GPS directions. Getting here by road required four-wheel drive and the ­navigational skill of a pirate. According to Kirby, most people at the Cove were either locals like them, or long-term summer residents who'd been vacationing here since they were in diapers, generally in homes their grandparents had built.

The town didn't have a single hotel or B&B, something the mayor wanted to change.

We'd gone through similar things back home, especially after
much of the country's agriculture was destroyed by Hurricane Flora. But unlike here, in Tobago people welcomed the ecotourist boom, the new opportunities it brought.

One thing was certain: No matter where on the globe you went, something was always changing.

I approached the marina with the same stealth I'd used earlier and stopped short at the sight. I wasn't expecting to see the birthday boy, yet there he was, standing on the dock near his boat, hands in his pockets, looking at the water. I couldn't make out his features, but the stance was unmistakable. In the slump of his shoulders, the resignation in the bend of his neck, I read his thoughts.

They were mine.

The yearning, the unanswerable questions, all the what-ifs that the sea—in its endless tumult—would never clarify.

It was strange, what churned inside me. A connection of sorts, some shared pain I couldn't quite explain. When I tried to look at it, the feeling vanished.

Christian shook his head and turned, and for a moment I thought he'd spotted me; his eyes seemed to find mine in the shadows. But then the invisible connection broke, and he marched along the dock and onto the shore, seemingly unaware of my presence.

Happy birthday
, I mouthed to his back.

He was gone.

I slipped onto the Vega. It felt less like a victory than my earlier escape from Kirby, and I left the candle unlit, in case Christian
drifted back in this direction. By the pale light of the moon, I searched the onboard cabinets until I found paper towels and Windex. The cushions in the V-berth were surprisingly unruffled, and I climbed onto them and sprayed, sprayed, sprayed the ceiling. Scrubbed, scrubbed, scrubbed the walls.

Outside, clouds drifted over the moon, and in the new darkness the ocean hissed.

Black as ever, my words remained.

I got to Lemon's upper deck just in time to catch the end of Christian's birthday song in the gallery, the scene warm and yellow through the windows. My absence had been undetected.

Surrounded by his family and Vanessa, Christian hunched over his cake at the head of the table, face glowing in the candle flames. He was smiling, but there was something unhappy there; it clung to him like mist on the dawn waves, a glimpse of what I'd sensed earlier. Again I felt the familiar tug that had gripped me at the docks.

His six-year-old brother hung on his arm like a monkey.

“Make a wish,” Sebastian Kane said, and Christian smiled.

At Sebastian's gentle touch, all the angles of Christian's face changed, smoothed. My eyes traced the lines of him, the messy hair, the stubble along his jaw, full lips. Soft. Kissable.

“Hurry,” Sebastian said. “They're melting!”

Christian smiled again, and his eyes, green and gold in the
flickering candlelight, shifted. For the second time that night he seemed to be looking at me in the darkness, though I knew it was impossible for him to see my face. Still, I met his gaze, and neither of us looked away, even as he pursed his lips and extinguished the candles, until nothing remained beyond the glass between us but smoke and wishes.

Chapter 4

Leaving early was unusual
for Lemon's coven, but the mayor's real estate rants had cast a shadow over their revelry. It wasn't long before they said their farewells, one by one, until only the Cove residents remained—us, the Kanes, Vanessa, and Mr. Katzenberg, telling us how amazing the beach would be next summer, thanks to Prop 27.

“I don't know, Katz,” Mr. Kane said. His tone felt both jovial and condescending. Like he could be insulting you, but you wouldn't know it until later, when you were brushing your teeth and auto-replaying the night's events, and your brain would suddenly go,
Wait.
“You've only been in office half a term. Already need a corporate bailout?”

“Bailout?” The mayor laughed, a throaty thing layered with the stuff he wasn't saying either. “This is prime beachfront we're sitting on. Atrophying, if you ask me. That's why I think you should sell.”

“I already know what you think,” Mr. Kane said. “Everyone in this room knows what you think.” He laughed, again with the condescending tone. It didn't seem to bother the mayor.

As the two went on about property values, I watched Christian and Vanessa across the table. He played with her hair absently, and she smiled, eyes at half-mast in lazy contentment. Christian's other hand was tight around a glass of soda, probably spiked with something stronger, and every time his father spoke, his jaw clenched and unclenched. It happened so fast, so automatically that I wondered whether Christian even realized he was doing it.

“ROI in a place like the Cove is hard to predict,” Mr. Kane said. “Risky investment, if you ask me.”

Christian sighed. “You can take the corporate stiff out of the office, but you can't take the office out of the stiff.”

I felt my eyes go wide. I couldn't imagine me or my sisters talking like that to Dad or Granna, but Mr. Kane didn't seem to notice the insult.

“Can we change the subject?” Vanessa asked. “All this expansion talk is puttin' me to sleep.” Her tone was playful, but her eyes told a different story. I followed her gaze to Mr. Kane, who belatedly shot Christian a venomous look. Christian stiffened, alternately chugging the drink and clenching his jaw.

Mrs. Kane said nothing.

With five sisters, a single dad, and a grandmother living under one roof, along with all the field workers constantly on the property
and an endless, rotating crop of resort guests, my family had its sticky webs too. I'd learned to navigate them, to find joy in those flickering moments of closeness even when they felt suffocating.

But walking into someone else's family issues? One false step, and even without speaking, I could end up tangled.

When the mayor resumed the conversation with more praise for Parrish and Dey's plan, I left the table, undetected and unstopped, and made myself busy in the kitchen. I was filling the sink with soapy water when I felt a tug on the hem of my sweatshirt.

From the height of my hip, a pair of vibrant blue eyes fringed in white-blond curls peered up at me.

I turned off the tap and smiled at Sebastian.

“I like your hair,” he said, twirling a lock of his own, which was almost as springy as mine.

I patted my head. Humidity was a commonality the Oregon coast and T&T shared; like Sebastian's, my curls were everywhere, though his stopped at his chin, and mine coiled all the way past my shoulders.

He looked around to ensure we were alone. Satisfied, he waved me closer, cupping his hands around my ear as I leaned in.

“Can you please give me another piece of cake?” he whispered.

It was the best idea I'd heard all night, so I cut one for each of us from the leftovers on the range top, and together we sat at the counter.

Through a mouthful of chocolate cake, he said, “Did you know
that Atargatis Cove is named for the very first mermaid? I'm going to look for her this summer.”

I'd read something briefly about the legend of Atargatis on one of my library visits with Kirby, but Sebastian clearly had the inside scoop. I reached across the counter for a Sharpie so I could ask him more about the town's namesake, but then the air behind us shifted, and someone leaned in between us, warm and close.

“What sort of debauchery is going on in here?” Christian said. Immediately I rose from the chair, crossed back over to the sink with my plate.

“Well?” Christian said.

Sebastian giggled. “The usual sort.”

“Hand it over, Trouble.” Christian held out his hand, and after ­shoveling in a final bite, Sebastian gave up the rest of his cake. Christian finished it in two bites. He joined me at the sink, slipped his plate into the soapy water.

Sebastian darted back into the gallery.

And Christian just stood there.

Watching.

He didn't cross his arms or put his hands in his pockets or inspect his fingernails like most people would. He was just . . .
there
. So relaxed and confident that I had to resist the urge to give him something—a sponge, a dish to dry, anything. He'd obviously connected the dots on my identity, which meant he knew I couldn't speak, so by not saying anything, he was baiting me.

It worked.

There was a time when guys couldn't get under my skin, when I'd come right back with a flirty innuendo, a joke, a rejection. A playful shove. A tease. One step closer and an almost-kiss.

All that confidence, all that moxie. All of it wrapped up in my voice, my music.

All of it lost.

I grabbed the Sharpie from the counter, scribbled on my palm. I held it up to his face.

Something I can do for you?

He laughed, raspy. “God, yes.”

I held his gaze and thought again of a hundred witty comments, all the flirty things I would've said if I'd still been able to say them.

If I'd still been me.

But of course I just waited, silently aflame.

It was Mayor Katzenberg who saved me.

“Chris,” he called from the gallery. “Come on out, son. Something I'd like to run by you.”

Christian rolled his eyes. “This'll be entertaining,” he mumbled, turning away. When I didn't move from the sink, he looked back over his shoulder and said, “You coming?”

I followed him out, reclaimed my chair next to Kirby.

Vanessa's eyebrows were drawn close, pinched with worry. When Christian sat next to her, she put her arm around the back of his chair. It looked like she was about to say something, but the mayor barged ahead.

“Hear me out, boys.” Mr. Katzenberg regarded the men over the lip of his highball, amber liquid stilled like the crowd at the table, all of us waiting. He sipped loudly, then lowered his glass. “Up for a little wager on the Pirate Regatta?”

Kirby leaned close, whispering in my ear. “The regatta happens every August during the Mermaid Festival. Christian races with Noah on Noah's boat, the
Never Flounder
? They—”

I cut her off with a look. I already knew about the festival; I wanted to hear the mayor's terms.

So did Christian. He folded his arms over his chest and leaned back in the chair, tipping it up on two legs. “I'm listening.”

“I know you and my boy are close,” the mayor said. “But if you're willing to race against Noah this year, and you win, you'll get the
Never Flounder
.”

“You love that boat, Christian!” Sebastian wriggled excitedly in his mother's lap. “We could take her on mermaid hunts!”

Christian's eyes glinted for a moment, then dimmed. “Noah would never part with his baby.”

“Noah doesn't own it,” the mayor said. “I do.”

“And if I lose, Katz gets the old Vega?” Christian laughed. “Hardly a fair trade.”

“Hardly indeed.” The mayor wiped his mouth with a thumb and forefinger, eyes shining like a pirate who'd just unearthed the treasure. “No, Chris. If you lose . . .” He looked at Mr. Kane, greasy lips twitching into a smirk. “Your father sells his property to P and D.”

Mr. Kane laughed, hollow. “Should've seen
that
coming.”

“It's a good deal, Kane,” the mayor said. “They're offering well above market value. And if people see the Cove's prominent families selling the houses at Starfish Point, they're more likely to jump on board with Prop Twenty-Seven. It's a real chance to put this town on the map.”

“This town doesn't want to be on the map,” Christian said.

“That's exactly the kind of outmoded thinking that holds us back.” The mayor rattled off local businesses, people who'd benefit from the expansion. Tax incentives, growth, sustainable local economy, and everybody wins, restaurateurs and surf shop owners alike.

Lemon wasn't on the list.

“It's a win-win, guys,” he finished up. “You're walking with the boat, or you're walking with a hell of a profit on these houses.”

“Houses?” Christian said.

“P and D's after the complete package.” The mayor tapped the table in front of him. “Your house and the neighboring property.”

Kirby's leg twitched against mine, and Lemon's eyes snapped to us, probably feeling the same shiver that passed through me. Lemon's house, Lemon's gallery, this very room, the sanctuary I'd been offered this summer . . .
we
were the neighboring property.

“Pardon the interruption of this little testosterone-fest,” Lemon said. “But do I get a vote?”

The mayor sipped his drink, hissing through his lips. He looked at Mr. Kane, who didn't offer any reassurances either.

Lemon loved her home—the Mermaid Tears gift shop and gallery,
the sprawling gardens, the view. The fact that the two most powerful men at the Cove were treating it like a business deal, a generic summer rental whose fate didn't matter? Something they could toss around in a wager, with no care that Lemon's life could get turned upside down?

That told me every last thing I needed to know about them.

Thankfully, Christian wasn't taking the bait.

“Sounds like real good times, guys. But . . . pass.” Christian rose from the table, went to the kitchen for a drink refill. When he sat down again, he said, “Vega's barely floating, and there's no time to get her ready.”

“Nonsense,” his father said. “Take a vacation from breaking hearts this summer. You'll have plenty of time to get her seaworthy.”

“She won't sail past the docks, Dad. I was down there earlier. She's a wreck.” Christian glanced at me, then back to his father. “What are you even playing at? The
houses
?”

“Don't do it, Daddy,” Sebastian said. “Mama, tell him not to. I like it here.”

“Don't look at me,” Mrs. Kane said. “This is your father's game, apparently.”

“My great-grandfather built these properties, Meredith,” Mr. Kane said, smug. “I grew up here. They belong to me.”

“Yes, I'd almost forgotten,” she said. “For a minute there, I thought our marriage was an equal partner—”

“Hey, kids,” Christian said, “we all know you two are bonkers for each other. No need to blind us with the sunshine of your marital bliss.”

Mr. Kane cleared his throat. His wife leveled him with an icy stare. One of them was sleeping on the couch tonight.

“Should I start packing?” Lemon asked. Beneath the steely sarcasm I detected fear. She had to be nervous—I'd felt the shift in her energy, seen it in her eyes the moment someone mentioned “neighboring property.”

“P and D isn't interested in tossing you out,” the mayor said. “They simply want to corporatize the properties up here under one umbrella. You'd still lease it, just from different landlords.”

“Different rent, too,” Lemon said.

He waved a hand, swatting at her persistence. “Better services, more security. Other than that, not much would change for you. And Kane's house? It's empty in the off season. He's paying a maintenance company for upkeep when he could just let P and D rent it out year round, bring in more families, more money for the Cove.”

“More money for Parrish and Dey,” Lemon said.

“I'm sure they'll keep the rent fair,” he said. “Whatever the market value supports.”

“Market value will skyrocket if those plans go through,” Mrs. Kane said. “Let's not pretend, boys. P and D invests in beach communities to make a profit, bottom line. They start building condos, hotels, a Starbucks, more roads. Everything gets more crowded, more expensive. Half this town would be forced to move.”

“That's an exaggeration,” the mayor said. “Sure, there'd be changes. Some folks would relocate, move somewhere off the beaten path. But
we're talking about a few sacrifices for the common good. A real chance to save this place. To make it better for those of us who stay.”

He seemed pretty certain that the plan would work, but it didn't make sense to me. If everyone was forced out, what exactly was he trying to save?

“The Jameses are on board,” Mr. Kane said. “Right, Vanessa?”

Vanessa offered her disarming smile. “Don't you get
me
into this mess, Mr. Kane. I leave politics to the politicians.”

“Neil told me he'd be listing your place this summer,” he said.

“Yeah, but it's not for Prop Twenty-Seven. With all their campaign stuff, my parents just don't have time for long vacations anymore. Mom's not even coming for
this
season until next week, and Daddy won't make it up here at all. But y'all?” She looked from the Kanes to Lemon and Kirby, skipping pointedly over the mayor. “You guys
are
the Cove.”

“Exactly.” Lemon nodded. “And what do you think the Cove becomes if we commercialize it, Wes? Take a drive up to Cannon Beach—
that's
our future under corporate landlords.”

“Yes.” Mrs. Kane pointed at Lemon with the phone that hadn't left her hand all night. “Cannon Beach is a perfect example.”